


An International Affair

by dvs



Series: d's personal faves [6]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvs/pseuds/dvs
Summary: A king. A president. Love at a long distance.





	

The first time Sam and T’Challa meet, it’s in front of hundreds of cameras and it feels as if the whole world is watching. They exchange handshakes, polite words, and perfect smiles for the cameras to capture. The rest of the day is spent walking in circles of diplomatic bonding. Sam is so preoccupied that he barely looks at the newly crowned King of Wakanda. That is, until the evening’s lavish dinner thrown in T’Challa’s honour. The young king is surrounded by admirers, and it’s easy to see why. He has a natural confidence identical to the one possessed by his father. But when he smiles, there’s also a softness about him. That’s what has everyone hanging off his every word.

“Pretty,” Bucky says, sidling up next to Sam. “Want me to go over there and talk you up?”

Sam turns his head to stare at Bucky. “I’m the President.”

“So?” Bucky asks.

Sam blinks. “Do _not_ speak to that man.”

“But I’m your VP,” Bucky says. “I _have_ to talk to him.”

Bucky walks off, flashing a grin and charming the pants off everyone he passes, weaving his way through the crowd on his way towards T’Challa. Sam turns towards a dignitary courting his attention, turning his back on both T’Challa and Bucky’s admirers. About twenty minutes later Sam finds T’Challa walking towards him with a smile with a request for a personal tour of the Oval Office. Sam obliges with a smile. It all seems quite run of the mill and cordial until T’Challa politely requests a moment alone. Sam tries not to look too taken aback, nodding to the security detail to step outside with T’Challa’s guards.

“You do not remember me, don't you?” T’Challa asks when the door shuts.

Sam smiles at him, his diplomatic best. “You’re not a person I’d think is easy to forget.”

“Do you remember...a boy?” T’Challa says, tilting his head at Sam. “Slight of build. Braces on his teeth. Unfortunate facial hair. Harvard?”

“Crap,” Sam says quietly, flashing back to Harvard and a fumble at a dimly lit party with a dorky kid with a sexy accent. “ _Roderick_?”

“And...a hastily borrowed name,” T’Challa says, looking as though he’s trying to force himself to forget that detail.

“But you and I...” Sam trails off.

“Yes. We did,” T’Challa says matter-of-factly. “Clearly it was a forgettable experience.”

Sam shakes his head as the past catches with the present in front of his eyes, a boy from long ago merging with the man before him.  “No. I mean...I remember you. Just...not _this_ version of you. I remember a skinny shy kid who couldn’t help talking when we kiss-”

T’Challa steps forward and kisses Sam, silencing him. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “Forgive me. I have been wanting to do that all night.”

Sam steps back. Despite T’Challa having taken advantage of a spot not visible from the windows, the last thing Sam needs in his new job is a scandal. “So. _Roderick_. You look good.”

T’Challa grins, shaking his head. “That name was not my idea. But thank you. So do you. I  am not surprised at all to see you here, the President of the United States of America.”

“You’re not,” Sam says, unconvinced. “Well, thank _you._ ”

“I saw your speeches. Your campaign. I heard you speak at Harvard once. You care now as much as you did then,” T’Challa says with a nod. “How could it not touch the hearts of your people?”

Sam tries to conceal his surprise at the praise, his heart wobbling at the flattery. “It wasn’t the speeches. It was people afraid of four more years of Graydon Creed. They saw his war on mutants and they knew it wouldn’t end there. Things had to get real bad before people were willing to take a chance.”

“And they took that chance with you,” T’Challa says. “They believe in you. More than you believe in yourself perhaps.”

Sam frowns at T’Challa, wanting to tell him that a man can’t just go around being charming and saying... _things._ But the indignation is wrapped up with an urge to kiss his stupid face too. Luckily, that’s when the door opens and someone comes in with a message for T’Challa. They return to dinner, the night moves on. T’Challa flies back the next day, leaving Sam feeling a little sturdier, and a little shaken.

The second time they meet is in Wakanda, though technically, Sam realises, it’s their third. T’Challa is incredibly kingly and proudly shows off his kingdom to Sam. The people of Wakanda welcome him as if he’s one of their own, and Sam worries that his heart may just burst from so much acceptance. It’s a sad state of affairs, he thinks, when kindness and acceptance becomes out of the ordinary.

T’Challa pulls Sam by his hand just as his thoughts start to skip down a morose avenue, gently pushing him against a shelf in the palace library, where he has been giving Sam a personal tour. “Where are you?”

Sam frowns. “Excuse me?”

“You are here next to me, listening and speaking, but your mind is elsewhere,” T’Challa says, tapping Sam’s forehead, before he leans in a little closer.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” Sam asks, frowning and jerking his head back.

T’Challa pulls back a little, nodding. “Yes.”

“Stop doing that,” Sam says. “I am the President of the United States of America. You can’t just be kissing me and knocking me on my forehead.”

“I can’t do that to the President of the United States of America? Is it an act of war?” T’Challa asks. Sam gives T’Challa an exasperated look. “Fine. No more kisses. Let us speak the deceitful language of politics instead. Blah blah blah.”

“The King of Wakanda and the President of the United States of America making out in a royal library is a scandal waiting to happen,” Sam explains.

T’Challa looks around, looking just a little offended. “Your people have something against libraries?”

“On the contrary. At this time the USA has more library branches than McDonalds,” Sam says flatly. “And you _know_ what I’m talking about.”

T’Challa laughs, before sighing dramatically. “Are men like us not allowed moments such as this?”

No wonder the Wakandans love him. Sam can practically hear the bookshelves ovulating. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be president and single? The other side fought a whole campaign on how if I won I’d turn the White House into a frat house, if I wasn’t busy using it as a bachelor pad.”

“Frat house. A play on words, very clever.” Sam gives T’Challa a look. “Do you think it is easy to be king? I had three wedding proposals before breakfast. All of them from advisers holding photographs of women I have never met before.”

“Which is why,” Sam says pushing away from the bookcase that’s been holding his weight and all his burdens, “I think we should-”

“Be very careful,” T’Challa says, resolutely.

“T’Challa-”

“One day you will allow yourself the freedom to kiss whom you wish to kiss,” T’Challa says.

“And that day could be a long way off,” Sam says. “Go back to your advisers and pick a photograph.”

Sam takes a step to move, only for T’Challa to stop him with a hand on his chest. “If there was nothing stopping you, would you kiss me?”

The right answer here would be no, Sam thinks. T’Challa would accept it and move on. No is the smart answer. So Sam says, “Yes.”

 _Shit_ , he immediately thinks.

T’Challa grins at him and presses a gentle kiss against Sam’s mouth, one that makes Sam want to pull T’Challa right back into another kiss. Instead he leans against the bookcase and sighs in defeat, before being shown the rest of the library.

The third time (or fourth, as Sam thinks of it) USA and Wakanda have somehow reached the final stages of the World Cup. Sam spends a few moments feeling saddened to hear this is a soccer tournament, before his mind catches up with the name Wakanda.

“That is not good,” Bucky unhelpfully tells Sam. “We’re up against your boo.”

“Shut up, man,” Sam says grouchily.

“We need to get the Secretary of Defence onto this,” Bucky continues, shamelessly as ever. He swings around in his chair to face the Secretary. “Steve?”

“I agree with the President,” Steve says with a small smile. “Shut up, Buck.”

It doesn’t seem too much of a big deal until Sam finds out that the King of Wakanda will be in attendance to support his countrymen. It suddenly seems only right that he should be doing the same, and that’s how he ends up sitting next to T’Challa, looking into the depths of a wide stadium, watching the Wakandans kick ball and ass. He has to keep checking himself before he looks at T’Challa to make small talk, because the cameras are focusing on him as much as the game. T’Challa is not making it easy, the way he keeps pressing his firm thigh against Sam’s. Sam glances at him and wonders how his suit is managing to contain all that...firmness.

“Are you enjoying the game?” T’Challa asks him at one point, eyes dancing with humour.

“I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed soccer this much,” Sam tells him with a nod and smile, knocking his knee against T’Challa’s. T’Challa laughs at that, and that is the picture featured in the news next day, along with headlines about Wakanda’s victory.

Sam can’t stop staring at the photograph, the open delight on T’Challa’s face. He still remembers the feel of them sitting close together. The way they kept meeting through circles of mingling at the party after the win. The moment they passed in a corridor and T’Challa intentionally stumbled into Sam, steadying him by placing his hands on Sam’s arms, pressing closer before moving away. He can still feel T’Challa’s hands, firm and strong.

He shuts the laptop and decides it’s best to avoid crossing paths with the King of Wakanda for a while.

They meet in Belgium next, and Sam realises he feels starved the moment he sees T’Challa, but he keeps his expression schooled, cameras flashing everywhere he goes. He sees T’Challa during an evening black tie function, watches him and his Wakandan dignitaries mingling with other world leaders, Sam somehow still paying attention to the questions and opinions being directed at him. When he sees T’Challa, each second flies by so quickly that their few minutes are not enough to whet the appetite.

“Your speech,” T’Challa says, his eyes burning with such intensity, it’s hard for Sam to look away. “It was very good. But then they always are.”

Sam smiles warmly. “Right back at you.”

T’Challa grins, looking down at the drink in his hand. When he looks up he’s smiling, but there’s also something a little sad about his smile. “Congratulations. Four more years. I know you will do much good in that time.”

“I hope so,” Sam says.

“And I hope after that, you will take a well deserved vacation. In Wakanda perhaps,” T’Challa says softly, before adding, “Or at least accept a dinner invitation.”

Sam takes a measured sip of his drink. “Four years is a long time away.”

“And yet, four years seems like only yesterday,” T’Challa says. “Does it not?”

Sam is silent, lost in a moment four years ago, T’Challa in the Oval Office, smiling brightly, all the way to his warm brown eyes. Sam wants to step forward and take T’Challa’s face in his hands and pull him into a deep kiss. He wants to take him by his hand and lead him straight of here to a place where it’s just them. He wants T’Challa so badly, he thinks his hands might start shaking and his glass will fall and smash across the floor, and everyone will know. Everyone will look at him and they’ll just _know_.

“Sir?” Sam looks to his side to see one of his team with a look on his face that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.  “There’s a call for you, Mr. President.”

Sam nods to the agent, sending him away. Turning to T’Challa, he says, “Duty calls.”

T’Challa raises his glass. “Mr. President.”

Giving T’Challa a nod, Sam replies, “Your Majesty.”

They both return to their own worlds that very night, without another word. Nothing but a shake of the hand to remember him by, Sam privately laments, Air Force One humming around him as he flies back home.

The fourth time they meet, it’s in the middle of chaos. Sam is under a pile of rubble, and he can still hear screams and explosions somewhere above him. They tell you about aliens on the first day, he thinks, but you never really think you’re going to end up fighting them. Or at least, that you’ll be authorising the Avengers to go ahead and kick alien ass. If he had enough room, Sam would shake his head. But a rock moves, and sunlight spills into the dark. Sam sees the Black Panther towering over him, the bright sun a burning halo behind his head. It’s the stuff of wet dreams. Luckily, everything feels broken, so Sam figures he’s under no threat of embarrassing himself.

The Black Panther carefully hoists Sam out of the full body dent he’s made,  helping him away from the mess that used to be the Oval Office. There are noises somewhere far away, relieved whoops and some gasps. T’Challa’s arm tightens around Sam’s waist as he limps over strewn debris.

“Are you hurt badly?” T’Challa asks.

“Mostly my pride. Maybe my spleen a little too,” Sam says with a wince. “I thought you weren’t interested in becoming an Avenger.”

“I am not,” T’Challa says, as Sam foggily wonders how T’Challa keeps his voice from sounding muffled behind that mask.

“Then what are you doing here?” Sam asks, still trying to catch his breath, legs unsteady.

“I am in love with you, you ridiculous man,” T’Challa says. “I came here for you.”

Sam stops in his tracks and stares at T’Challa, and as fate would have it, that’s the photograph that gets printed in all the papers the next morning, him bloody and tattered, looking so unguardedly stunned, that even years and many presidents later, people will continue to ask the question of what happened in that moment.

“Wow,” the Vice President says the next morning, hovering by Sam’s hospital bed. “How come you never look at me like that?”

“Shouldn’t you be out there showing your face while I’m here?” Sam asks absently, looking at his iPad and another article with that same damn picture.

“Aliens kind of blew up the White House, remember?” Bucky says. “I am currently without office. Seriously, people are asking questions. What did he say?”

Sam replays it back in his mind, quietly murmuring, “Said he loves me.”

“Everybody loves you. That’s not news,” Bucky says with a shrug. Sam just stares at Bucky quietly, and maybe something of the strange but sweet frightened feeling in his chest shows on his face, because Bucky’s eyes widen as he says, “Holy shit. You’re going to be the next Queen of Wakanda, aren’t you?”

Sam glares, ignoring the too pleased look on Bucky’s face. Sighing at his iPad, he says, “This Parker kid really has a bad habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I’m hiring him as your wedding photographer,” Bucky says. Sam would glare at him for his stupid joke, but knowing Bucky, it’s no joke. Sam fully expects to see Peter Parker snapping his wedding photographs one day.

The fifth time they meet a summit is being held in Wakanda, and Sam is invited alongside a group of influential world leaders. Sam is feeling oddly obstinate, quite sure he doesn’t want to go. It takes him a while to realise that these are not presidential feelings, and off he goes to Wakanda for a week. A week, he keeps repeating to himself. He won’t make it. Something terrible will happen.

The first day is fine. He arrives mid-day, attends an opening conference and then prepares to attend a dinner hosted by T’Challa for all the delegates. They speak briefly, surrounded by others, and they move on. The second day is busy, filled with speeches and meetings, and Sam sees T’Challa in passing. Day three he doesn’t see T’Challa at all. He sees what might be a hundred people, but their faces merge into one and become unforgettable as he realises he’s pining for one.

Day four, he and T’Challa are supposed to hold a joint conference as close allies, but they’re both surrounded by countless others, and every word they speak is business. But then sitting at opposite ends of a long table, just for a second, their eyes meet and Sam feels all the sound in the room being sucked away, leaving nothing but silence. Or maybe he just remembers it that way because of what follows is a loud explosion that rocks the whole building, glass showering inwards, people flying out of their seats.

“Mr. President!” is being shouted at him and around him, but in the distance he can hear panicked voices calling for T’Challa.

Sam stumbles to his feet, pushing away hands as he unsteadily moves to the other end of the room. Another explosion sounds somewhere in the distance just as Sam reaches the huddle around T’Challa. T’Challa is lying on the ground with his eyes closed, panicked hands checking him for injuries. Sam can’t hear a thing, his ears ringing. All he can do is allow himself to be pulled away by his security detail, everyone not injured being ushered out of the room.

Day five feels like day four, Sam having gone without sleep. He’s finished changing into clean clothes, preparing to leave his hospital room and make his way to Air Force One, the summit having come to an abrupt end. He’s awkwardly navigating his jacket with his broken wrist, trying to tune out the aides around him. They stop their chatter when two of his agents come in, stern and unreadable as ever.

“We’re good to go,” Agent Barton says, and they all walk out down a cleared corridor and into an elevator.

When it stops, members of T’Challa’s special guard are waiting to escort them to T’Challa’s room. Sam steps inside, nodding to Barton to keep everyone out. T’Challa nods to his guards, the women giving him a stern look before they leave, closing the doors behind them. The blinds remain open, everyone pretending not to watch from the corridor.

Sam smiles at T’Challa, moving across the room to go to T’Challa’s beside, his back to the windows.  “How are you doing?”

He looks fine, aside from a few cuts to his face, the concussion invisible to the eyes. He nods at Sam. “Good. You?”

“Still managed to hold onto my spleen,” Sam says. He looks down at the bed where T’Challa’a hand is close enough to touch. He knocks it with his fingers. “You up to speed?”

“We have two of the men responsible,” T’Challa says with a nod. He looks away as he says, “I am sorry that you and your people came to harm. This was meant to be a peaceful summit. A look to the future.”

Sam covers T’Challa’a hand, and says quietly, for their ears only, “You can’t just do that. You can’t just tell a guy you love him.”

When he looks at T’Challa, Sam worries that the state of his heart might be too much on display, but he looks all the same. T’Challa’s expression is calm. “Best to say these things while we have life pumping through our veins.”

“Black Panther,” Sam murmurs, squeezing T’Challa’s fingers. “You’re supposed to be invincible.”

“Nobody is invincible,” T’Challa says. “That is what makes life so precious.”

Sam fights the urge to lift T’Challa’s hand to his lips, and gives them a hard squeeze instead, telling T’Challa, “I’ll be in touch.”

“I hope so,” T’Challa says with a smile that fills Sam’s face with heat.

He leaves Wakanda feeling shaken, but at the same time, with warmth in his chest, pumping his heart with hopeful beats.

The sixth time they meet, there’s a huge hole opening up over New York, looking like a spiny-toothed mouth. It seems to breathe a strange mist that makes people fall into a hypnotic daze, leaving the world at the mercy of reptilian invaders on cosmic surfboards. The Avengers have a plan of course, part ground attack, and part space.

“Doesn’t sound insane at all,” Sam tells Colonel Fury as they stand together on the bridge of one of SHIELD’s finest carriers. “Fighting crocodiles from space. Not even a little crazy.”

“Cap knows what she’s doing,” Fury says. Thunder strikes outside, and Sam thinks he sees a flash of red in the sky. A moment later red and gold both streak across the sky. “That’s one goddess of thunder, and one Iron Woman accounted for. We’ve got the Red Hulk and Scarlet Witch on the ground with Hawkeye.”

“She the one with the arrows, right?” Sam asks. Fury nods. “She’s my favourite.”

“I thought I was your favourite, Mr. President.”

Sam swallows and turns around to see T’Challa standing there like some mythical being, ogled by every tech on deck. He has his mask in his hand and a smile on his face.

“Your Majesty,” Fury says, without sounding deferential at all. “Nice of you to show up. I thought I was going to have to use a ball of string to get your attention. How about a quick debrief?”

Fury walks off, seriously expecting a president and a king to just follow. T’Challa looks amused, turning his gaze on Sam who says, “This is beginning to look like you’re an Avenger.”

“Not at all,” T’Challa says. “New York just happens to be a favourite destination of Wakandans.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fury calls out. “Mr. President, Your Majesty, _if_ you don’t mind?”

Sam and T’Challa both exchange knowing looks and decide to follow without complaint, T’Challa’s hand brushing Sam’s waist on the way. He thinks about it later, the quietness of the moment staying with him, despite the severity of the situation.

“I don’t get it,” Sam says quietly, watching the various feeds they have up across an assortment of devices, keeping one ear on the murmur of the staff milling behind him, Bucky and Steve. “How does she fly with a hammer you can’t lift?”

“She’s worthy,” Bucky says. Sam and Steve both stare at him. “What? It’s what she told me.”

“How does a _hammer_ know if you’re worthy?” Sam asks with a frown.

“Natasha says it’s less about being worthy and more about the hammer being wired to a particular individual,” Steve says.

On one of the screens the news plays old footage of Iron Woman being catapulted across the sky. Sam sees the way Steve’s whole face go tight and sighs. “Do you ever feel like you should be out there, instead of sitting here and just watching?”

Steve nods slowly, a small smile on his face, whilst Bucky sighs heavily and says, “Maybe we’re not worthy.”

Sam looks at Steve and says, “Also, not sure we could actually kick ass as hard as your wife does.”

“Or talk as fast as she does,” Bucky adds. Steve rolls eyes, but smiles all the same, before he, like Sam and Bucky, sits up at the sight of T’Challa slamming a reptilian soldier to the ground, a wobbly camera zooming in just as he looks up.

Bucky looks at both Sam and Steve, telling them, “They’ll be okay. They’re Avengers.”

“It’s true,” a flat voice announces from behind them. They all turn to see Agent Romanoff, Agent Barton at her side. She nods towards the screen and tells them, “The Avengers get shit done. Sir.”

“Thank you, Agent,” Sam says. Bucky looks in Romanoff’s direction and smiles approvingly, whilst Steve looks in Bucky’s direction and scowls disapprovingly.

It takes about twelve more hours before shit gets well and truly done. New York is a smoking mess,  but the strange portal is closed and there is no sign of the reptilian soldiers it brought to Earth. Sam makes his speech from a makeshift podium at the centre of the devastation. He looks around at all the faces watching him, every single person united for a moment. It’s heartening that people can discover this unity, but sad too how quickly it can be forgotten.

It’s midnight when he finally sees T’Challa again, back on the helicarrier where he and the other Avengers are momentarily regrouping. Sam makes a point of meeting every other Avenger first, thanking them, incredibly presidential. When he reaches T’Challa’s room, he nods to the security outside his door and walks straight in, knowing that T’Challa is alone inside.

T’Challa is in the middle of pulling on a black top, his bruises on view for just a moment, but long enough to make Sam ache a little. He smooths the top down, smiling and opening his mouth to say something as Sam walks towards him. Sam wraps his arms around T’Challa and pulls him close, and he can hear T’Challa’s breath catch, whatever words he was about to say becoming stuck. Sam just holds him closer.

After a moment T’Challa’s hands slowly come up against Sam’s back, returning the embrace, his mouth hovering near Sam’s ear. “We should not be-”

“Cameras aren’t working,” Sam says quietly. “Just for a few minutes.”

T’Challa’s body shifts slightly, and Sam knows he’s about to pull back, so he holds on a little tighter. “Sam? Sam.”

Sam pulls back, but only enough so he can press a kiss to T’Challa’s mouth, hungry and desperate. This time it’s T’Challa’s hold that grows tight, keeping Sam locked in place. They’re breathless when they part, T’Challa giving Sam a questioning look.

“I’m in love with you,” Sam explains. It’s not new, not a revelation. Just words that are overdue, and seem to have stunned T’Challa into complete silence.

T’Challa’s brow dents, a soft smile tugging a the corners of his mouth. “Are you?”

“Can’t you tell?” Sam asks.

“Sometimes,” T’Challa says, and Sam thinks he’s never seen the Wakandan look so unsure of himself. Sam leans in close and lays the most tender of kisses on T’Challa’s mouth, slow and sweet, light as a feather, and yet imprinting so deep that when Sam is being driven back to the White House, he can still feel it, and he can’t stop smiling.

The next time Sam meets T’Challa, it’s at a charity gala. The Wakandan king looks like a matinee idol, smiling brightly as he stands with regal poise, holding court with a group. Everything is gold and cream tonight, lights and fabrics, glasses and crockery, food and drink. It all seems to wrap around T’Challa, as if he’s the prize at the centre. Sam finds himself staring, and T’Challa catches him, raising his glass from across the room. Sam grins, and raises his. Suddenly, no distance feels too far. Not a room. Not a continent.

“Dance?”

Sam turns towards the voice and smiles, putting his drink down, gesturing towards the dance floor. “Madam Secretary.”

She grins and says, “Carol’s just fine.”

They both fall into a slow dance and chatter about the end of an era, until Sam turns her and T’Challa comes into view, also dancing with someone. Their eyes meet and for a moment Sam is dancing with T’Challa, both of them slowly moving around the floor, everything gold and white merging in the background to a soft warm glow. He can feel it, T’Challa’s hand in his, their bodies close together. Then T’Challa turns, and their gazes unlock.

“Whatever happens, the primaries are sure going to be interesting,” Carol says.

Sam looks down at her and nods. “Are they ever anything but?”

Laughing, Carol says, “You know what? I’d give my right arm for boring.”

“Me too,” Sam says, eyes seeking out T’Challa. “Me too.”

The eighth time Sam meets T’Challa, it’s after a hell of a week. On the way to see him, his mind is still in the newly rebuilt Oval Office, looking out of those windows for the last time. Last for now anyway. It’s not a terrible loss, not really. The worst part of it is how time seems to be stretched ahead of him like a road running through an empty desert.

“So, President Carol Danvers. How does that feel?” he asked the newest occupant of the White House.

“A mouthful,” Carol replied with a laugh. “It’s going to take some getting used to.”

“Yeah. That it does.”

Carol squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Are you kidding me? Robert Kelly could be standing here instead of you, and he isn’t. I am _more_ than okay.”

“Kelly still got close. He got too close,” Carol had said, looking out of the window. “We’re going to have a lot of work to do.”

“It’s not like you’re not used to it,” Sam said, giving her a pat on the arm, and moving towards the couch to pick up his coat. He nodded at Carol. “Madame President.”

“Looks like you can’t wait to leave,” she said with a grin.

“I got plans,” Sam told her. “ _I..._ am going out to dinner.”

“Someone I know?” she asked. Sam didn’t answer. He just grinned and left with a spring in his step.

When he reaches the hotel, he’s ushered into T’Challa’s room, not nearly as opulent as Sam would expect from a king. Every bit as sleek and warm as the King of Wakanda though, who stands waiting for him in the middle of a room filled with lit candles and music softly playing. Someone takes Sam’s coat from him, before leaving him and T’Challa completely alone. Sam takes measured steps into the room, his eye drawn to the window beyond which Washington is sleeping. T’Challa steps between him and the view, taking his hand, prompting Sam to look at him.

“Hi,” Sam says.

T’Challa smiles, moving a hand to cup Sam’s face. He shakes his head. “Eight years I have waited to have you to myself.”

“Sure you still want me?” Sam asks, only half-joking.

“From the moment I met you,” T’Challa says. “Before we became men of the world.”

“You mean, back when you were called Roderick?” Sam asks, giving T’Challa an innocent look.

T’Challa flashes him a delighted grin, and pulls him into a kiss that doesn’t end for the longest time. It just seems to flow into other kisses, their hands linking, their bodies moving closer until they’re both caught up in the soft sway of the music. When the music ends, they both come to a stop, eyes locking, before Sam takes T’Challa’s face in his hands, and kisses him deep. The next kiss is hungry, and it flows into another and then into a tangle of arms and legs, clothes being pulled off and cast away, their bodies somehow finding their way into bed. Dinner goes uneaten.

Sam wakes somewhere in the early hours of the morning knowing exactly what time it is and wondering if he should leave, right up to the moment T’Challa pulls him possessively close and holds him there. Sam can’t help but turn in his embrace and seek out T’Challa’s mouth, pushing him onto his back, and stoking a fire that’s always existed between them, slow and sweet. The heat between them creeps into the sky outside the window, spilling into the morning and mingling with the sunrise.

Sam lies there under the morning light, heavy and sated, drifting as silence turns to the quiet chatter of the television and the aroma of strong coffee fills the air. He turns onto his back with a sigh to see T’Challa sitting back against plush pillows, wearing a black silky pair of pyjama bottoms, bringing a white cup to his mouth, his eyes focused ahead on the television. He looks like a lovingly carved sculpture, full mouth kissing the rim of his cup, and dark eyes catching every glint of light that dares to pass their event horizon. Sam thinks he could get used to this, lying next to T’Challa and just watching him, where he’s not out of reach.

“What time is it?” Sam asks, voice rusty.

“Seven,” T’Challa says. “You have somewhere to be?”

He has plenty of places he needs to be, plenty of things he needs to do, but for once, they can wait a while. He can lie here, T’Challa within touching distance. So he reaches out his hand and says, “No.”

T’Challa grins at the gesture, setting his cup aside and closing the distance between them.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be 1000 words of silliness for my NaNoWriMo target, based on randomly remembering a comic where Sam Wilson is POTUS. Not sure how it grew further than intended. Also, just wanted to write something a little uplifting what with the dire political climate at the moment. I also wrote this whilst watching The Princess Diaries 2, and am a little worried about what I might end up writing next...
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumbler post over here](http://dvswraatins.tumblr.com/post/153450449599/an-international-affair)


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